Read Online The Bronze of Eddarta by Randall Garrett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Randall Garrett
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glowing in that reflective way that sometimes had, and her chest rose and fell in quick, sharp breaths.
“It’s been a rough trip,” I said, taking deep, deliberate breaths, “and we both need some rest. Sleep well, Tarani.”
I saw her thinking about it, wondering whether to press the issue. To my relief, she let it pass. She opened the light, woven blanket and shook it out over herself. As she lay back, she said, in a soft, carefully neutral voice: “Goodnight, Rikardon.”
7
I was tired, too. By rights, I should have snuggled into Yoman’s bed and slept the night through. Instead, I escaped into the streets of Eddarta.
Here, again, I had a reasonable excuse. I knew little about Eddartan customs, and there’s no better way to get information than to buy a few rounds of drinks in a friendly bar. I had planned to go out for a while, anyway, if only to make some discreet inquiries about Gharlas, and his standing among the Lords. I figured to be safe with my own face. It was my sword which identified me to the rogueworld, and Rika was safe with Thymas. In any case, Eddarta’s rogueworld was pretty tame—the
organized
thieves lived on the hill.
But the true reason I left was because of Tarani.
In Gandalara, where there was no venereal disease, and birth control was a matter of a woman saying no when her inner awareness warned her she was fertile, intimacy between a consenting couple was considered to be their own business.
If Tarani had been an ordinary Ganadalaran woman, I wouldn’t have hesitated. If I had just met her, I wouldn’t have hesitated.
But I knew Tarani’s extraordinary history, and our relationship had an uncertain history of its own.
We had met in Thagorn, when Tarani identified me as the target for a pair of killers traveling with her show. I had felt, and she had later admitted, a sense of recognition in that first meeting. In light of our later adventures, I attributed it to a sort of premonition of our joining forces against Gharlas.
Tarani’s involvement in the assassination attempt had come through her association with Molik, the leader of Chizan’s rogueworld. At sixteen, still a virgin, she had offered him a deal—her body, and her illusions, in exchange for the capital to create her traveling show.
At eighteen, free of Molik’s attentions but not of his memory, she had taken refuge from his unwholesome need of her—a need she felt she had created—in Thymas’s devotion.
At twenty, only a few weeks ago, she had finally found peace. Given the opportunity to destroy Molik, she had learned that only her guilt tied her to him. When her anger turned to pity, she was truly free.
But that was the
only
thing she had gained, these past few weeks. She had given up the show she had gone through hell to get. She had relinquished the security of her promised marriage to Thymas. She had found her “uncle,” only to watch him die, and then discover that he was the father she had never known.
I had seen Tarani regal and strong, the very air around her throbbing with power. I had seen her young and helpless, suffering from my own thoughtless words. She had endured grueling physical demands with the stoic acceptance of a trained soldier. She had survived an emotional crisis that no twenty-year-old girl should be expected to face, and she had come through it sane, hurt but healing. I felt such admiration for her, such tenderness. Her strength of character awed me. Her vulnerability was a warm glow that nestled, trusting, in my thoughts and feelings.
Markasset, with the overriding passion of the young, saw Tarani’s response as an indication of her need for emotional comfort. Ricardo, a man still subject to physical need but with a lifetime of wisdom to control it, wanted to give us both time to
understand
the source and destiny of those intense feelings.
I went from bar to bar, pretending to drink a lot of faen. Even while part of my mind was analyzing the information I gleaned from
“It’s been a rough trip,” I said, taking deep, deliberate breaths, “and we both need some rest. Sleep well, Tarani.”
I saw her thinking about it, wondering whether to press the issue. To my relief, she let it pass. She opened the light, woven blanket and shook it out over herself. As she lay back, she said, in a soft, carefully neutral voice: “Goodnight, Rikardon.”
7
I was tired, too. By rights, I should have snuggled into Yoman’s bed and slept the night through. Instead, I escaped into the streets of Eddarta.
Here, again, I had a reasonable excuse. I knew little about Eddartan customs, and there’s no better way to get information than to buy a few rounds of drinks in a friendly bar. I had planned to go out for a while, anyway, if only to make some discreet inquiries about Gharlas, and his standing among the Lords. I figured to be safe with my own face. It was my sword which identified me to the rogueworld, and Rika was safe with Thymas. In any case, Eddarta’s rogueworld was pretty tame—the
organized
thieves lived on the hill.
But the true reason I left was because of Tarani.
In Gandalara, where there was no venereal disease, and birth control was a matter of a woman saying no when her inner awareness warned her she was fertile, intimacy between a consenting couple was considered to be their own business.
If Tarani had been an ordinary Ganadalaran woman, I wouldn’t have hesitated. If I had just met her, I wouldn’t have hesitated.
But I knew Tarani’s extraordinary history, and our relationship had an uncertain history of its own.
We had met in Thagorn, when Tarani identified me as the target for a pair of killers traveling with her show. I had felt, and she had later admitted, a sense of recognition in that first meeting. In light of our later adventures, I attributed it to a sort of premonition of our joining forces against Gharlas.
Tarani’s involvement in the assassination attempt had come through her association with Molik, the leader of Chizan’s rogueworld. At sixteen, still a virgin, she had offered him a deal—her body, and her illusions, in exchange for the capital to create her traveling show.
At eighteen, free of Molik’s attentions but not of his memory, she had taken refuge from his unwholesome need of her—a need she felt she had created—in Thymas’s devotion.
At twenty, only a few weeks ago, she had finally found peace. Given the opportunity to destroy Molik, she had learned that only her guilt tied her to him. When her anger turned to pity, she was truly free.
But that was the
only
thing she had gained, these past few weeks. She had given up the show she had gone through hell to get. She had relinquished the security of her promised marriage to Thymas. She had found her “uncle,” only to watch him die, and then discover that he was the father she had never known.
I had seen Tarani regal and strong, the very air around her throbbing with power. I had seen her young and helpless, suffering from my own thoughtless words. She had endured grueling physical demands with the stoic acceptance of a trained soldier. She had survived an emotional crisis that no twenty-year-old girl should be expected to face, and she had come through it sane, hurt but healing. I felt such admiration for her, such tenderness. Her strength of character awed me. Her vulnerability was a warm glow that nestled, trusting, in my thoughts and feelings.
Markasset, with the overriding passion of the young, saw Tarani’s response as an indication of her need for emotional comfort. Ricardo, a man still subject to physical need but with a lifetime of wisdom to control it, wanted to give us both time to
understand
the source and destiny of those intense feelings.
I went from bar to bar, pretending to drink a lot of faen. Even while part of my mind was analyzing the information I gleaned from
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